Episode IX: End of Orders
by EJGryphon
Summary: The First Order is creeping across the galaxy, and its Supreme Leader seems too weak to reign it in. On a darkened space station, the last remnant of the Resistance struggles to stay alive. What will happen as the Skywalker saga comes to an end? Heavily Kylo/Rey but almost everyone makes an appearance. *Constructive criticism is eagerly requested!*
1. Chapter 1

Under the glaring sun, the white stormtroopers' helmets reflected blindingly. Rows and rows of them stood at attention, awaiting their turn after the TIE fighters swept their laser canons over the battlefield, killing many and spreading panic through the poorly prepared troops of the enemy. At the signal, the troopers began forward; the motley band of insurgents crumpling under their advance.

"Forward," the general said, calmly, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp-lined jacket open in front, revealing the badge on his chest that marked his position and rank in the First Order high command.

Grand General Armitage Hux was watching the battle from his command shuttle, hovering above the surface of the planet Hmago in the Outer Rim. It was not a powerful or well-populated world, but anti-First Order sentiment was strong and it made a good example for the rest of the galaxy. It would be easy enough to clear out all the adult males of the three primary species and resettle Hmago as a bastion of the Order; the fact that Hmago's soil was rich in potassium and nitrates which could be exported to supplement farming on wetter worlds to feed First Order troops was a convenient benefit.

In the few short months since the death of Supreme Leader Snoke, Hux had undergone quite a rollercoaster. Kylo Ren, that rabid beast, had claimed the throne, and his mysterious and near-total capacity in the Force made a coup … trickier to attempt, though not impossible, Hux knew. That throne, Hux's by all rights, was so close to his grasp, yet not his. Not yet.

Meanwhile, Kylo Ren – ahem, _Supreme Leader_ Kylo Ren – had proven even more mercurial than Hux would have anticipated. He delivered orders with violent and absolute force and then refused to be present when they were carried out. Today, for example, while Hux oversaw the battle, who knew where Ren was hiding?

It was only a matter of time until the right moment and circumstance arrived. As he watched the ill-prepared peasants fall below him, he knew it was only a matter of time.

* * *

Supreme Leader Kylo Ren sat silently in his throne room, on the hard, oversized throne. He hunched over, his elbows on his knees, turning over and over an iron circlet, a gift crafted without his orders by a particularly enthusiastic – and skilled – blacksmith on some distant world. He dropped it on the slick polished floor; it landed with a _clang_.

What had he been thinking – Supreme Leader? What did he want with this throne, this crown, this … empire? In truth, he wanted no part of it. The only thing he really wanted, had ever really wanted, was out there somewhere, trying to forget him. She was the only thing he'd ever found that actually, in fact brought him any comfort. And she was gone. Had rejected him and his offer, as surely as he'd feared she would. _But how he had hoped_ …

Galactic conquest; the management of troops, their movements and their care; the governance of worlds already conquered – he had neither heart nor head for any of it. While his mother had been an inspiring leader and a wise public official, she had spent all her energy on that project, with little left over to teach her son how to be like her. Instead, he had chosen to go down the opposite path.

A holomessage alert blinked from the arm of his chair. It was Hux, reporting from the battlefield. He ignored it. The rape of Hmago, despoiling it of its resources and its men, had been Hux's idea. He'd merely agreed to let him go forward. In truth, all of the conquests since Kylo Ren had taken the throne had been Hux's idea. That was bad, he knew; it made Ren look weak in the eyes of his Grand General, although none of the other officers ever saw their exchanges.

He leaned in his seat, arching his back as if it were sore. Lightsaber practice certainly gave him a rare opportunity to clear his mind, but he had no one to practice against but a hologram. Without making actual contact with an opponent, without the chance that he'd be bruised or wounded or worse, it all seemed so pointless and bland. He thought again about the night she'd given him this scar; unconsciously he raised his hand to touch its slightly raised surface. She'd stalked him like a beast of prey, stood over him while he lay bleeding in the snow; the strike of her blade had burned like fire, and he'd watched her circling him, deciding whether to finish him. Her face, her eyes that night – they haunted him.

He could see her, almost always, in his periphery. Snoke's words had been nothing but lies; he hadn't created the bond they shared but only exploited it, for now he was dead and still Ren could see her, hear her, almost all the time. If anything, it was stronger.

Right now, for instance, she was walking again. It seemed to be just about all she did, aside from looking after her pets and practicing with her lightsaber. She was getting to be quite good at that, he noted, with a bit of perverse pride; the ephemeral holograms she sparred with evidently gave her enough pushback that she was slowly moving from the barbaric chopping of a street brawl to a far more delicate warrior. He would have liked to tell her that, if for a moment he thought she'd appreciate his words.

Neither of them seemed to sleep much, but that was nothing new. But when finally she would drift off, lying in her bed wherever it was she was, sometimes he would whisper her name. "Rey."

* * *

Some days it was easy to ignore him; some days, it was hard. Today was one of the latter.

On the easy days, he was there, connected to her, but he made just as much of an effort to ignore her as she did to ignore him. She felt him, his emotions, his presence; she even heard his voice and could guess at his actions. But on days like today, when she caught him looking at her, with those eyes … These days were tougher.

Finn had noticed that she wasn't talking much. No matter how much time he spent fussing over Rose, he still found more to invest in Rey. He'd find her in a corridor here on their darkened space station, where she'd be walking aimlessly, trying to escape _him_ , and try desperately to engage her in conversation. "You hungry?" he'd ask, and try to drag her to one of the mess halls; "How are your little … bird things?" he'd enquire, referring to the porgs she and Chewie had left Ahch-To with. In truth, the porgs were about the only things keeping her together. Feeding them, cleaning their nest boxes, petting and talking to them, gave her a sense of purpose while so much else felt so meaningless and blank.

Occasionally she'd turn back to the books, the Jedi texts, when curiosity finally took hold of her. And she'd get lost in them, in the beautiful ancient chants and poems, and find herself lost in thought as she tried to digest them on her own. And she'd wish again that she had someone to discuss them with. And she'd think of Ben.

He was constantly in the back of her mind, as he was so often on the edge of her sight. The Force was connecting them, that was obvious; Snoke's lies may have affected her for a moment, but his spells had been broken the moment Ben had sliced him in half, yet their connection remained. Intensified, even. It had grown from a few, unpredictable events on Ahch-To to the near-constant presence of Ben Solo – Kylo Ren, she corrected herself – everywhere she went. She could ignore him but she couldn't seem to make him go away.

"The General's looking for you," Finn said. She was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of his voice behind her. "Let me walk with you."

This too brought up mixed emotions for Rey. She wanted nothing more than to go to Leia, whose kind and steady presence gave Rey, and everyone else here, so much strength. Leia, who knew more about the Force than she did, who might be able to give her some insight into the meaning of the texts or share with her some new knowledge. Or even just listen to Rey as she puzzled through this mystery she'd found herself a part of, without ever wanting anything to do with it. Leia's losses were severe: her husband, brother, and childhood friend all gone in a matter of days. Her own health destroyed in so many ways by the attack on the _Raddus._ Rey wanted very much to be able to take care of Leia as Finn took care of Rose. Leia was perhaps the only person Rey knew who could share in Rey's sadness; everyone here had lost so much in this fight – too much, but Leia alone shared Rey's sensitivity to the Force.

But, as was always so, the problem was Ben. She could hear him when he spoke, even though it was never to her, and this was the reason why she withdrew from everyone on the Resistance base: if she could hear him, then surely he could hear her. It was bad enough that he had so much access to her unspoken thoughts, and this part of their connection only seemed to grow as time went on. But the kinds of things she would want to discuss with Finn or with Leia were exactly the kinds of things she needed to hide from Ben.

She'd been summoned, and Finn couldn't know and wouldn't understand why she wanted to refuse. So she went.

Rey entered the chamber, which was softly lit. It was an office, more elegant than anything she had really been in before. But it was simple, clean and undecorated. There was nothing showy or pretentious, and nothing that gave away the importance in position of the woman whose office it was.

General Organa sat in a high-back chair, her cane held in front of her, its tip on the floor between her feet and its head between her two folded hands. She was dressed simply put elegantly, in an olive-green gown with a high cowl neck. Gold earrings and bracelets were the only decoration, but for the single comb in her long, ornately braided hair. Ray realized that Leia looked older since she seen her last, even in the few weeks she'd been avoiding her. The strain on her body from the destruction of the _Raddus_ combined with the stress of leading this ragtag bunch of resistance fighters was clearly wearing on her. A thought passed through Rey's mind, too, that Leia no longer had her husband to lean on, and had watched her beloved son tried to kill her beloved brother. No wonder she looked so tired and stretched.

"Well come in," Leia said. There was no preamble, no pretense of formality. Rey felt again the warmth and love that Leia always exuded. It was what made her such a beloved figure, and it was what made Rey trust her so much.

Rey sat herself on the chair opposite Leia. It was obviously where Leia intended her to sit. It was a chair that matched Leia's own, a clear symbol that this was a meeting between friends, not between a soldier and a general. Not that Rey considered herself a soldier, or even a true member of this Resistance. Her role was too conflicted, too fraught, to bear putting on one of those orange and white jumpsuits they'd found in the supply room.

"Something's wrong," Leia said, her brown eyes fixed firmly on Rey. Her chin was tilted down, her brows arched, her gaze intense. Quite frankly, that look reminded Rey of Ben's.

"No, General," Rey lied. "I'm fine."

Leia sighed and sat back in her chair. She looked Rey up and down, evaluating the girl's posture and figure. Rey knew she looked far too thin, even for her. She'd been eating, thanks to Finn's constant bothering, but sleep was hard to come by, and practicing with her staff was about the only activity that allowed her mind any rest.

"Rey, you don't get to my age without knowing when something's wrong." Leia gave her a soft, almost maternal smile. "I may not be a Jedi, but I can tell that there something going on with you."

Of course she could. This was exactly why Rey had been trying to avoid her. Surely she could read that Rey was unhappy - more than unhappy. That much did not require any familiarity with the Force. Even Rey knew it was obvious. But the cause of her unhappiness- that was something she could not talk about, especially not with Leia.

"Just tell me," Leia persisted. "Maybe I can help."

It was tempting. So tempting. Rey glanced around the room, nervously. She listened, reached out with her feelings to see if Ben was with her. For once, he was not. But still Rey could not bring herself to say the words, to name the source of her sleeplessness, her restlessness.

"No, General Organa," she said, at last. "Really."

Leia did not believe her. She was a woman who had lived many lives; more and more these days, she felt like she had lived many lifetimes; she was not old by most standards, but most people did not lead wars and govern galaxies. Most people did not outlive every single person they loved. Most people did not survive open space. Her body was breaking down, and she knew it.

"I've been through almost everything a person can go through, Rey. If you change your mind, I hope you trust me enough to speak with me. In the meantime," she added, thoughtfully, "stay strong. The galaxy needs you. It needs all of you."


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, she was gone. Commander Dameron was there with her in the end, he said. She'd been at peace; she'd spoken only of the future of the Resistance, of her hope for the galaxy to be restored.

As her body was cremated, everyone spoke of her triumphs, her role in the Rebellion and her years of service to the New Republic. Of her willingness to give her last years to building up the Resistance. Some talked about Han, their long marriage, and his charity work.

No one mentioned their years of estrangement, or how she'd sent her only child away because he frightened her. Did anyone even know? Rey did. She'd had no choice but to accept Leia for who she was, of course: war hero, leader of the Resistance. Perhaps even the figure of a mother to admire, when she had practically begged Rey to tell her the secret that pressed so hard upon her. But amidst all this, Leia had made many mistakes.

"I tried," Rey whispered. Tears pooled in her eyes as she watched the flames with the others. It was an insufficiently dignified end for a princess, to be incinerated in the mortuary of a space station like a common soldier. Leia would probably appreciate the irony, she realized, and call it a fitting and honorable way to go. "I tried to fix it. I truly tried."

Those tears did not escape Rose Tico. For her part, she had only known Leia as a figure of the Resistance and in her history books; growing up, Rose had heard the stories about the princess of Alderaan, a world which, like her own, had been destroyed by the Empire – albeit in a more spectacular fashion. The galaxy had been shocked when the first Death Star struck; no one even noticed when Rose's planet was picked clean of anything that made it habitable. But the stories of Leia Organa had kept Rose and Paige alive in those dark days, as they imagined themselves to be not war orphans and refugees, but Rebels on a mission. They'd been shaken to the core when news of Leia's biological parentage had been shouted across every news feed, but meeting the princess – now the general – in person had inspired them again.

Now she stood by at her funeral, watching Rey talk to herself while she wept. "She's not okay," Rose whispered to Finn, indicating his friend.

Finn looked up and over at Rey, who stood alone, tears streaming down her cheeks as she mouthed words only she could hear and wiped at her face with the backs of her hands.

He shook his head, sadly. "She hasn't been."

Rose broke away from him. On this day, for this occasion, she had shed her simple green jumpsuit and instead wore one of the uniforms they'd found in storage on the abandoned Rebel space station. Navy blue, trimmed in gold, with her precious medallion hung round her neck: she felt almost regal, and totally uncomfortable. But for the funeral of Princess Leia, it seemed necessary to do something … more. Rose approached Rey, who was still muttering to herself, and offered her a handkerchief.

"You're taking it hard," Rose observed, stupidly. Why did she always seem to say the worst possible thing? "This won't be the end of the Resistance. We still have her spirit."

Rey looked stricken as she turned her eyes to Rose. She could see then what Finn had meant: Rey looked thin, pale, and unfed. It was more than this funeral and what it meant for their futures; her grieving had started long before Leia's death.

Rey had tried to right the wrongs. She had been _so sure_ that Ben would turn, would come home with her to Leia. She had seen him in her mind's eye, turning back to the light – or so she had thought. The vision they'd shared was no promise of the future, she knew that now. Snoke had infected her, placed false ideas in her head, all to draw her to him for her to be struck down by Kylo Ren. She was a training exercise for his pupil, nothing more. And this was why she couldn't stand to see Ren stalking her wherever she went: she had failed Ben Solo.

Suddenly Rey became aware that she had been staring at Rose for several seconds with red eyes and parted lips. _She must think I've gone mad,_ Rey thought to herself. _Perhaps I have._

In the far periphery of her sight she caught a glimpse of Kylo Ren, felt his presence. He did not linger. Did he know what was happening here? Had he felt his mother's lifeforce leaving? Or was it just a coincidence?

Before she could at last speak to Rose, Poe Dameron's voice rose over the crackling of the flames.

"On this sad day," he said, standing a little taller. He was now the senior officer, in command of their small band. "We have one last duty to our Princess. I propose that her ashes be taken to the remains of Alderaan. She should rest with her people."

"Hear, hear," said a voice from the back. The others gave their consent in their own languages and ways.

Poe nodded, glad to have the support of the remnant of the Resistance. "Then we need to assemble a team."

"I'll do it," Rey said, softly. All the eyes in the room turned to her. "I'll do it. Myself."

"Rey," Finn said, his voice tender with concern. "You can't go alone."

She shook her head. He had no idea that she felt alone every minute anyway.

"We can't all go, and I can handle a B-wing on my own." Rey felt resolute, resigned. She did not suggest that she take the _Falcon;_ while she was able to pilot it on her own, someone would invariably volunteer to accompany her, and a copilot was the last thing she wanted for this. The ancient Rebel starfighters they'd found in the space station's hangar had turned out to be perfectly serviceable with a tune-up, and there were far more of them than there were pilots to fly them. "You need every soldier here, and no one needs that old piece of junk. You won't miss us, and I'll be back tomorrow."

She did not mention her other reasons for volunteering, and no one pressed her further.

* * *

Rey gathered up a few supplies, mostly food and water; there wasn't much more to her name to pack. She gave Chewie instructions on the porgs and hugged Finn goodbye. Then it was time to receive the urn.

Poe met her in the hangar, a courier droid at his side. He only nodded at her; what words could they exchange at a time like this? She knew that Leia had meant so much to him, that she was more a mentor than a figurehead alone. Her passing had put the responsibility for the Resistance into his hands, and, Rey knew, he wasn't entirely sure he was ready. He wanted to believe he was, but the future of the Resistance was the future of the Galaxy, and it weighed upon him. It must have weighed on Leia, too, though she didn't show it like he did. Then again, reading Poe was for Rey like reading the Jedi texts she kept in her quarters: a bit mysterious but ultimately more straight-forward than she would have anticipated.

The courier droid transported the simple, elegant urn up the ladder with a careful, slow whirring sound, hauling itself up one rung at a time, with Rey and Poe following. Most of the others stood in the hangar, watching it happen, lined up in the best semblance of a ceremony they could manage given the paucity of their numbers.

"May the Force be with you," Poe said at last, as Rey personally stowed the urn. And then he was gone, leaving her to her work. She settled herself in the cockpit and gingerly eased the B-wing up and out, into open space.

"What are you doing?" Ben asked. His tone was flat, blank. Rey continued to manually steer the tiny ship, never looking up at where his image was in her mind.

"Giving you a gift," she replied, after several moments. "I know you know."

He sat there, silent, staring. Not at her, she was glad to note. His emotions, usually so evident and available, were dampened and hidden. In truth, she couldn't even imagine what he was feeling. Her entire life she'd been waiting, waiting. She'd had hope that her parents would come back for her – foolish hope, false hope, but _hope._ He, on the other hand, had no such luxury. Leia was dead, and they had never spoken again. No reconciliation, and no hope for one in the future. Every time Rey had told herself that someday she'd have the chance to be held by them and loved by them again, it had buoyed her up in the darkest days. If Ben had ever felt that way before, it was gone now. His hope was about to sprinkled into the bleakness of an artificial asteroid field. His image flickered in her mind and was gone.

When at last she dropped the little starfighter out of hyperspace, it took a few moments for her to get her bearings and find a spot where chunks of rocks didn't strike the ship with a metallic _thunk_ every few seconds. She put the ship into lock, keeping it stationary, while she observed the graveyard. All of this was easier with an astromech droid, but BB-8 belonged to Poe and she hadn't wanted Poe on this mission, or anyone else for that matter. Rey unbuckled herself and turned in her chair to check back on the urn in the gunner's seat, where she had laid it and surrounded it with every soft thing she could gather. Now she was stationary, hanging in the dead air, she felt the supreme loneliness closing in around her _. This is where her people died,_ Rey reminded herself. Everyone Leia had known and loved, including her parents, had perished when the Death Star burst their planet like a popped balloon.

After several seconds, Rey sat back down and fired up the engine. She didn't bother to latch her safety belt; it seemed unnecessary to take extra precautions like that. No one would miss her if she never came back from this mission. Slowly, she eased the starfighter toward the abandoned space station Leia herself had had constructed; she found herself, bizarrely, for just an instant, wishing C-3PO were with her to tell the story. He was a worrywart and a nuisance, but he had known and loved Leia as much as anyone – and had known her longer than anybody else in the Resistance. Come to think of it, he hadn't spoken much in the days since Leia's death. She made a mental note to check on him when she got back to Holdo Station.

Slowly, for there was no hurry, she guided the starfighter around the various asteroids which were not really asteroids, hoping – though not able to admit it to herself – that none of these chunks of rock and metal was too recognizable for what it was. She approached the main door and hailed the station. It was much smaller than the temporary base the Resistance now called home, constructed from the remnants of the first Death Star: an attempt to make something good out of something so very, very evil, and a lasting testament to what had happened here. A series of mechanical _beep_ s replied to her hail, and she typed in the old Rebel code Poe had given her. The bay door opened, and she steered the B-wing inside the station's hangar.

As Rey climbed down from the B-wing toward the floor below, she became aware of the pressing, oppressive silence. The courier droid clunked softly as it made its own descent behind her, carrying the urn with Leia's ashes. It was the only sound. There was no one here – no one. The station had been maintained the NR for years, but as the First Order encroached and other matters come to the forefront of everyone's minds, they had withdrawn the staff from the station, leaving it a silent testimony. _Fitting,_ Rey thought, that a dead and silent space station should be sentinel over the Alderannian graveyard.

She walked toward the back of the hangar, the little droid gliding along behind her on its two continuous-track rollers; the door _whooshed_ open and the lights snapped on, ushering her down the white main corridor. The little pin-hole light on a tiny sensor pinned to her shirt glowed blue, indicating as she walked that there were indeed no lifeforms around, just as her initial scan had revealed. She was well and truly alone here.

At last, she came to a room marked "Wardroom," the mess for high-level officers. Well, she was by herself, so didn't that make her the highest-ranking being? With a gentle _shush,_ the doors slid open and she entered. Like the main corridor, it was all white with a single, round table in the center of the room and a dozen crisp chairs around it. The floor was the same polished enamel as the corridor, but along the top of the walls, close to the ceiling, was a band of synthstone sparkling in the light as she moved. A thin layer of dust covered everything in this room, which had not been touched since the station had been evacuated many years before. A slight pang of hunger caught up with her, and Rey wondered if the protein recycler still worked, then decided she didn't want to know what lurked in the abandoned kitchen.

As she suspected, the large door at the far end of the wardroom led to the officers' quarters. It was here, she decided, that she'd spend the night. After a lifetime of sleeping on hard sand, she was getting more accustomed than she liked to admit to the former officer's chamber she inhabited on Holdo Station. The little courier droid rolled up beside her, as if waiting for its orders.

"Go in corner and wait until morning," she instructed it, and it did as she said, powering down and making the silence of the space even more apparent. A dreary place for a dreary task, she decided, as she sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and pulled out a protein biscuit from her pack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, all! I revised Chapter 2! Please go back and read the revised chapter before reading this new one! Thank you to WreckingBallHeart for all your help!**

 **As always, constructive criticism is so very much requested and appreciated!**

After a long period of staring at that urn, Rey took it out of its cradle on the droid and set it upright in the middle of the floor, sitting on her knees beside it, reverently. There were various religions on Jakku, most prominently a brotherhood of anchorites who lived in the desert and operated various services for the very poorest; these included orphanages, which she had managed to avoid thanks to the oh-so-kind care of Unkar Plutt. Until she had met Maz Kanata those months ago, she'd never had any need for religion or faith – now she wished she knew some better way to pray. It seemed appropriate at a time like this. A presence materialized near her; she didn't doubt who it was.

"Tell me a little about her," Rey said, without taking her eyes away from the urn. He was there with her, on the floor. Or at least to her it seemed that way, like they were together there.

He was silent for a long time. She actually looked up to see if he was in fact still connected to her. He was dressed in dark colors, as always, but loose untied at the throat. Night clothes, she realized.

"She was very proud," he said at last. "In the good way." More silence as he thought, as he imagined her face. "She used to sing me this lullaby when I was little. It was called Mirrorbright, about a moon over Alderaan." Was that a smile that crossed Ben's lips? She was quite certain she'd never seen him smile. Sympathy, perhaps even pity, was quickly replacing the prickly feeling of irritation. He continued: "Alderaan never had a moon. But it made her happy to sing it."

Rey listened attentively, her eyes never straying from his face.

"She would have liked this," he said, shrugging as if to indicate the space outside the station, space that used to be Alderaan.

His words hit Rey like a speeder crash and her expression changed sharply to fear.

"You know where I am?"

He shrugged again, as if ashamed. He no longer met her gaze.

"Do you know where the others are?"

"Just you." His voice was soft, childlike, afraid.

"Well, where are _you?_ "

"Ryloth," he said without hesitation. She couldn't conceal her surprise. "You don't have the firepower to do anything about it," he said. From someone else, it would have been a painful jab; from Ben Solo, the truth was just the kindest thing he could offer.

Rey had managed to observe this about him: he never lied to her. Surely from his perspective every word was only truth.

She wrinkled her nose, thinking about Ryloth. She'd come across more than a few Twi'leks in her lifetime, and she'd never been very positively impressed.

"Yeah, it's awful," Ben said, as if he could hear her thoughts. Of course he could hear her thoughts, or at least sense her emotions. She could sense his.

And what was inside Ben's mind? She turned to him her full attention, studying his face. The black eye and deep red scratches he'd borne the last time she had really looked at him had healed; the scar she had given him back on Starkiller had not. Soft black curls framed his face, which now, in grief, was gentle. From the first time she had ever seen him she thought him beautiful. This had never changed.

She watched him sorting through his emotions. In fact, she thought to herself, he looks … like a prince. Of course, he _was_ a prince: son of a princess, grandson of a queen. But he looked like the kind of man other men would follow. The kind of man who could be a leader, if he would try. And she of course could understand what he was feeling. Everyone was gone, and there could be no reconciliation now. She knew how that felt. She had hoped for so many years that her parents would come home, would be with her again, and that she would have the chance to tell them that she forgave them for abandoning her. To tell them that all she wanted was to be with them now. But that day, just as for Ben, would never come.

Two thoughts came to her mind at the same time. The first was that she had compassion for him – pity, even, if such a thing could exist without also feeling contempt for him. No matter what he had done, who he was, she somehow accepted him. To her he had value, value far beyond his sins.

The second was that she … forgave him. Strange, that: she knew so many of the dark details of his life, but that sense of compassion – no, _empathy_ – made it impossible for her to let them go. His friendship – could she call it that? – had to win over her rage. The malignant anger she'd felt, the hurt and the simmering frustration, would get her nowhere. Would only cut off this connection, which at that moment felt very real and very pressing.

Rey shifted her weight from her knees to her hip, so that she was sitting on the floor of the _Falco_ n beside him on Ryloth. She reached out her hand for his. He was still lost in thought, lost in grief, and he almost jumped when they made contact. She closed her hand around his large long fingers. "You're not alone," she reminded him. He wasn't; she was here, she was moved by his mourning. She felt warm tears overflow her eyes and drip down her cheeks.

Ben had winced at her touch. It was reflexive: he couldn't remember the last time he had been touched with kindness. Oh, when he was little, Han would toss him in the air, cover Ben's hands with his own as he taught him to fly a ship, tousle his dark curls; Leia would pull him into her lap to cuddle him, and leave smudges of lipstick on his little baby forehead. But as he grew older, stronger, darker - as the voice in the back of his mind grew louder - they became afraid of him. When Leia had finally sent him off to Luke, Han had refused to take him; she had to go alone, in the _Mirrorbright,_ her official transport, with a New Republic pilot at the helm. When she had hugged him goodbye - was that it? The last time?

Rey should hate him, yet here she was, _comforting_ him. Physically separated though they were, he could feel what she felt: sadness, yes, but also a kind of peace, even contentment. To be with him? He could find hope in that.

"Why didn't you kill me?" he asked, still so softly. She didn't move or flinch, as if she had expected the question. Her hand didn't move from his. "You wanted to. You should have."

"I wanted to," she agreed. "I failed you. I failed _her_. I was …" She thought for a moment, choosing her word. "I was angry."

"At me," he finished for her. She didn't answer, instead sitting quietly, feeling the warmth of his skin in her hand. That did surprise her, as much as she felt grateful for it. He knew where she was, could easily have sent an entire fleet of ships to destroy her tiny Corellian freighter, but he just sat, staring at his mother's urn.

"I thought you were gone," she said. Her hand was warm on his; the scent of her skin – its perceptibility a surprise – was clean and soft, like old-fashioned soap. Her eyelashes were stuck together and her eyes slightly rimmed with red.

Suddenly the sensation of her touch was too much for him and he withdrew his hand from hers. Too much – it was all too much. The emotion from her was, strangely, sadness but understanding. And that, even in the midst of all _this,_ hurt. Everything … hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

"Commander," Connix's voice called over his comm. "Sir, we're being hailed."

Poe Dameron picked his head up from where it rested on his folded arms on the table before him. He'd managed to fall asleep for a few minutes, a rare gift; in the few days since Leia's death, he had discovered just what exactly she bore on her shoulders as the leader of this Resistance. It seemed that the First Order was stronger every day, and they had only a few dozen men and women manning this old Rebellion-era space station, trying to stay alive and not lose hope for the future.

"I'm on my way," Poe replied, rubbing his eyes. "Come on, BB-8," he said to his little astromech droid who was ever at his side. As he strode down the hallway toward the bridge, he wondered, _Who would be hailing us?_ They'd used Leia's code to call for help, beaming the encrypted message to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, desperate for backup, and all for naught. _No one_ had answered their call; the message had been received, but no one came. And now, all of a sudden, someone was not just responding, but _here?_

Perhaps it wasn't an answer to their call, though. Perhaps it was a First Order ruse, a trap designed to get them to acknowledge that indeed, they were here, on this space station, before blowing the thing up into a million little pieces and ending the Resistance for good. He'd have to be very wary, very careful with whoever it was.

"Report, Lieutenant," Poe said, almost before the door to the bridge had fully opened.

"Sir, it's a single command unit." Connix looked pale and stricken, like he felt. "They say they'll only talk to General Organa."

"Well," Poe replied, with a mirthless chuckle. "Too bad for them, I guess. Open the link."

As she did so, a face appeared on the vid screen. A man of early middle age, still exceedingly handsome, with sandy brown hair gone grey at the temples and bright blue eyes, appeared before them.

"Greetings, Space Station Holdo," he said. His voice was deep and commanding, with the patrician accent and precise speech of an Imperial officer. He looked around briefly, as if counting the people he could see, and then he said, "I have a message, but only for Princess Leia Organa."

BB-8 beeped sadly beside Poe, who held up his hand to silence the droid.

"And just who are you?" Poe demanded, puffing out his chest as he reminded himself that he was in charge here.

The man on the vid screen hesitated. "I'd rather not identify myself at this time. Princess Organa will know who I am."

Poe gave a frustrated _humph_ and said, "I'm the commander of this space station. You can identify yourself and give your message to me or you can get the hell out of my region."

The man looked a bit taken aback to be spoken to in this way. "I am responding to the Princess' message requesting military support against the First Order. Please inform her -" Abruptly, the man stopped, as if he had just thought of something. "I appreciate your concerns, Commander. You have people to protect. Perhaps we could meet, you and I, to discuss my credentials, and if you believe me you'll let me speak to Leia."

Poe had to admit that sounded reasonable.

"Open the bay doors," he said to Connix. To the man on the vid screen: "Just you and me, in the main hangar. No guards."

"No guards," the man agreed. Poe flipped the switch himself to end the video. He couldn't explain why he felt so uneasy about this self-important, arrogant man.

"Come on, BB-8," he growled, and he and his droid left the bridge. "No guards," he reminded Connix, over his shoulder. "I can handle myself."

* * *

Poe opened the doors to the main hangar in time to watch the unknown man descending from his transport. The wide hangar still contained starfighters from the days of the Rebellion, mostly creaky from disuse and mostly the awkward B-wing bombers like the one Rey had taken. One by one, the Resistance fighters had been rebuilding and reconditioning all the vehicles they could get their hands on. Still in the cockpit, removing her helmet to expose a long mane of glossy black hair, was his pilot, a beautiful Pamarthen woman with full lips and coppery skin. She glanced down at Poe with an unreadable gaze in her dark eyes, and then turned away, as if he weren't really worth the effort. She looked like the kind of woman who could drink him under the table and then still kick his ass before dragging him to bed. At least, that was the kind of woman he _hoped_ she was.

"I said no guards," Poe said, despite these thoughts, as the sandy-haired man reached the bottom of the ladder and turned to look at him. His blue eyes were even more arresting under the lights of the hangar; Poe couldn't help but note that he and his pilot made quite a pair _. Were they – a pair?_ he wondered, letting his mind wander briefly. He looked the man over: broad shoulders, chiseled jaw line, the carriage of a potentate. He was dressed elegantly, in a silky, navy blue jacket and trousers, tall black boots, and a badge on his chest that was a single gold bar.

"My pilot?" the man asked, glancing over his shoulder. "She's handy with a blaster, but _I'm_ hopeless with a flight stick." _I doubt that,_ Poe thought, again against his better judgment. "Seems you've brought someone yourself," he said, indicating BB-8 and giving a patient smile. Of course, he had no way to know that the little BB unit was hardly the helpless ball of gyroscopes he seemed. "But if it makes you feel better …" He gestured back to the Pamarthen pilot, who looked briefly concerned but then closed the main door of the transport to block out their conversation.

Poe felt the eyes of his crew watching them, and the need to uncover some information. "So. Your credentials," he growled, trying to assert himself as commander in this space station.

The man hesitated for a moment, as if resisting the sound of his own name. "I am Daal Ransolm Casterfo, formerly of Riosa, currently commanding the Red Nebula Special Forces. At your service."

 _Ransolm Casterfo_. That name – it seemed familiar. Where had Poe heard that before?

And then he remembered. Ransolm Casterfo, the senator from Riosa: he'd been the senator who had uncovered Leia's biological parentage, her relationship to Darth Vader, and had exposed her deepest secret to the entire galaxy. His actions had cost Leia the position of First Senator, and had eventually led to the rise of the First Order and the death of so many people Poe loved – including, ultimately, Leia herself.

Unable and unwilling to stop himself, Poe drew back his fist and punched Casterfo square in the mouth.

Casterfo stumbled backwards, raising his hand to his split lip, blood trickling onto his chin. BB-8 beeped worriedly at the sudden outburst of violence. Poe heard the pilot open the cockpit door and saw Casterfo wave her off. He looked down at the red streak on his hand and drew a handkerchief from his pocket with the other, dabbing at the damage. "I deserve that," Casterfo said, looking Poe directly in the eye. "I do. I deserve that, Commander."

Poe shook out his hand; it wasn't often that he engaged in actual fisticuffs these days, and he'd forgotten that the person being hit is not the only one hurt in the process. "Yeah," he grunted. "You do. You bet your ass you deserve that."

Casterfo did not argue or move to retaliate. He pressed the handkerchief to his lip, eyeing Poe as if he were trying to choose his next words. "I deserve your rage. But did you know that she forgave me? All my sins against her. And she rescued me from my warranted death on Riosa – at great pains and danger to herself." He pulled the handkerchief away and glanced down at it, the bleeding seemingly stemmed. "Now, will you please let me speak with Princess Leia?"

From the high of that single blow, Poe tumbled down to depths of despair. _Leia._

Casterfo must have seen the shift in Poe's expression, the way his chin softened and eyes relaxed, thinking about her. She was gone now, never coming back. She had saved him from execution on Riosa? Had … forgiven him? For such a betrayal? He could imagine it, now that he tried; hadn't she forgiven Luke, at the end? Poe was suddenly very, very tired.

"General Organa," he began, then stopped himself. "Princess Leia. She's gone. She … died. Three days ago."

Now it was Casterfo's turn to crumple. His chest fell and he swallowed hard. It was clear he had not expected this news. Who could? Leia was a force, something so powerful that Poe had not believed she _could_ die – until he held her hand when she did.

Casterfo looked down and away, and for a moment Poe thought he could see tears glinting in his eyes. Poe gave him a moment to master himself, then Casterfo turned back to him, the proud, steely look returned to his face. "May the Force be with her. She was a good friend. I owe her my life, and I intend to pay my debts. If I cannot repay them to Leia, then I repay them to her cause. The Resistance has my fleet, Commander."

"Dameron. Poe Dameron," he said, understanding Casterfo's words a moment after he said them. "What kind of a fleet are we talking about?"

"Six thousand starflighters. Half a dozen star destroyers. And one Imperial dreadnought," Casterfo replied, a winning smile cracking his face, revealing perfect, white teeth behind his split lip, tinged with a little streak of red blood. A surprisingly charming smile, Poe thought to himself. "You'd be surprised what the Empire left behind in the wild regions."

Six thousand starfighters. A dreadnought. Enough, perhaps, to take on the First Order - and win.


	5. Chapter 5

She woke cuddled under the warm, scratchy blanket of the officer's bed on the Alderaanian space station _._ She couldn't remember falling asleep, but she realized that she'd slept more deeply than she had in … maybe years. Ben had been with her, she recalled, mourning his mother together. He wasn't there with her now, she knew, but she felt somehow more comfortable with the thought of his appearing whenever and wherever. He had been so heartbroken, so wounded, he had barely been able to lift his head to meet her eyes. And though she had struggled with how to show how much she felt his emotion, the touch of her hand had been too much to bear. She didn't blame him: how many years had she gone, when the only time anyone spoke to her was to yell, or to touch her was to strike?

Only yesterday she had been sure that Ben Solo was no more, that she and everyone else had failed him and he was finally truly gone, sunk beneath the dark waters of Kylo Ren, and then there he was once more.

 _Be patient, Rey,_ she told herself. Living and working alone, she had always talked to herself. It seemed important now to do so, especially as she had such grim work to do.

She turned toward Leia's urn and sighed.

* * *

"Hmago has been laid waste, my lord," the hologram of the young officer said, in the crisp, clean accent of the First Order academy. "We are transporting the necessary nutrients to Vikali now and mining for further stores will begin as soon as the machinery is built."

The Supreme Leader of the First Order was barely listening. The room where he sat was tall and long, but narrow; a rose window looking out onto the skyline of the city, clear glass with black leading, pierced the stone wall above his head. It was too high to be of any real use for observation. Instead it just allowed beams of sunlight to enter the otherwise austere room, falling onto his hair and shoulders. Arches lined the ceiling, drawing the eye of anyone who entered toward his stone chair. It was an impressive space, a reminder to the sycophants and liars who came to him here of his power. In the corner of his eye, as always, he could see Rey, arranging something, lost in thought, so focused on her task that she seemed not to take note of the fact that they were once again connected.

"My lord?" the holo asked, the man's brow furrowing.

She loaded the urn with his mother's ashes into the _Falcon_ 's release chute, wrapping it reverently with a cloth and pausing for just a moment to whisper that ancient blessing to it: "May the Force be with you." She pressed the button that slid the silo closed and launched the vessel into the space and debris that had once been Leia's home planet.

The loud _ch-chunk_ of the launch shot through him like a canon. Involuntarily, he curled his shoulders forward and raised his hands to his head, as if to block out the sound and all that it meant. He gasped for breath.

"Supreme Leader, are you -"

"Get out!" he roared at the hologram, shoving the projector from where it stood on the arm of his makeshift throne; it crashed to the floor and shattered, the projection ceasing with a final buzz of static.

Hideous pain crawled through him, like rats on his skin. He couldn't seem to ever wash off the sensation, the awful feeling of his own sins and failings, that clung to him like a miasma. No amount of private penance relieved the nausea and disgust, because it emanated from himself.

The door to the throne room slid open and two guards trotted in, blasters in hand across their bodies. These were not red-draped Praetorians; no, he had ended that tradition, he and Rey together. These were elite soldiers, tested and proven in their loyalty to the Order. They were dressed in all black uniforms with shiny black helmets, the heels of their boots clicked crisply as they moved. "My lord, there was a noise," one said.

"Is everything all right in here?" the other asked.

He didn't respond, but just glared at them from where he sat. He was never free of intrusions, never allowed to be at peace or alone except in the quietest part of the night.

"We'll send in the maintenance droids to clean that up," the first one said, indicating the wrecked holopad on the floor beside the throne.

"I'll take care of it," Kylo Ren replied, waving them off. The look in his eyes must have been severe, because they both turned on their heels and nearly fled the room. Once the door shut behind them again, he waved a hand at the smashed technology on the floor and it swirled together into a single clump. Then it bounced into the floor again and again, like a child's ball, until it was all shattered to slivers. Finally, with a slight gesture, he threw the whole thing against the wall, where the fragments, now more like dust, slid down to the floor in a heap. He sighed. In truth, no outburst could relieve or calm his nerves.

The First Order's treatment of Hmago and worlds like it was technically a product of his commands, but in truth he knew it was all Hux's idea. Their soldiers needed nutriment and other resources, and the worlds controlled outright by the Order were running low on how much they could offer. Ravaging and plundering a world teetering on the edge of the balance between the Order and the Resistance had the added bonus of leaving its people too weak to turn against them. And Kylo Ren had no better ideas for supplying their troops than this. In the few short months he'd been Supreme Leader, he was already becoming little more than a figurehead.

He drew his lightsaber, the weapon he'd made for himself after Luke had betrayed him and he'd fled, terrified and alone, from the temple. With no guidance to speak of, he'd crafted what he could of it, but was left with a jagged red blade and the necessity of a crossguard to vent its heat. He ignited it, casting red light over his face, and stared at the bright plasma blade. It was like fire, the key to his survival but also, somehow, representative of his fears. As he had done many times before, he pulled up the sleeve of his left arm and slowly tilted the saber down, slowly, until the short crossguard hovered, hot, over his skin. Several seconds passed before he lowered it just a little further, and he winced as it bit into the flesh.

Lightsaber wounds are notorious for the scars they leave, like the one she had given him across his cheek. The blade cauterizes the wound as it cuts, and no amount of bacta can truly eliminate the mark. There were several such lines collecting on the flesh of his left forearm, each one as neat as he could make it given the unstable nature of the blade itself, evenly spaced and controlled. The pain of the wound itself would fade, he knew, but for a few minutes it was enough to distract him.

* * *

Rey dropped the Falcon out of hyperdrive. She needed a moment to think. The elongated stars outside the window of the cockpit shrank into points of light in the distance as the ship slowed and then stopped, in open, blank space outside the control of any particular system.

She opened up the holo-recorder and hailed the Resistance station, using the code for Finn. He answered instantly, like he'd been hovering by the holopad, waiting to hear from her.

He practically shouted her name as her face came into view. "Rey! Oh, am I glad to see you. You're late and I was getting worried. We have a lot to tell you."

"I know. I'm sorry." She managed a faint smile. Rose popped into view over Finn's shoulder, waving cheerfully. Rey waved back, and thought to herself, they're going to be okay.

"Well when are you getting home?" He asked, eagerly.

It took her a long time to answer. Home. "That's just it. I'm not coming back."

Finn's smile dropped away instantly. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not coming back. It's not safe."

"What are you afraid of?" He pleaded. Rey wasn't afraid of anything, he thought. She was the brave one, the capable one, who always seemed to know what to do and how to get out of a situation. What could possibly keep her from coming home to the Resistance?

"The First Order," She replied softly. "They know where I am. It's too risky to ... I can't risk all of you."

"They've got a tracker on you? We have droids that can take care of that. We can find it -"

"It's not that simple," Rey continued, feeling the tears forming already. She couldn't help that she was such a crier, but she'd shed so many tears these past two days. She was sore and exhausted from weeping so much.

"We can't lose you too," Finn whispered, and she realized he also was on the verge of tears. "Whatever it is, just come home and we'll fix it."

Rey leaned in close to the recorder hoping that Rose couldn't hear her. "You two have something special, Finn. I am not going to be what keeps you from that." It was true: the two of them had grown closer and closer since Rose woke from her induced coma in the medbay. Rey was happy for them, for them both; they deserved happiness together and they deserved for her to be happy for them. As much as she knew that she couldn't have a similar happy ending, she wanted every joy for her friend. "If I come home I'm endangering every one of you."

Finn's mouth worked wordlessly as he tried to think of something to say, some convincing objection to make. Rose placed her hand on his arm, silencing him. "I don't understand, Rey, but I trust you. Come home soon; we love you."

"I love you too," Rey said, softly, through a throat strangled with emotion. She clicked off the display as quickly as she could, before Finn could get any words out; she couldn't bear it one more moment. Tears and weeping took her, and she drew up her knees to her chest as the pain took full hold.

Several minutes she sat like that, a ball of desperation, sobs wracking her body. She hadn't cried like this in years, she knew; hadn't allowed herself to really give in to the emotions. She thought about Finn and Rose and BB-8 and Chewie and the porgs – all the people she loved and needed to protect. Exile, if that's what this was, was the only gift she could give them. She was no longer any good to them in any other way, all because of this mystical connection to Ben Solo.

Ben. As so often, his name and his image floated to the top of her mind. She thought of him then as she had seen him on Crait, bruised and bloody and miserable. It seemed, in fact, that this was his natural state, misery. Well, she knew that feeling very well. Misery. Abject, desperate, total misery.

She sat up and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She was quite sure there was nothing on board the tiny, awkward starfighter meant to deal with a young woman's tears. And then, she felt it: a presence. A feeling. Fear gripped her; she was alone here, wasn't she? No, she hadn't managed to connect to Ben in those minutes, thank the stars. Then who or what was this strange presence? It felt … familiar.

"Vinsoth," a voice said, nearly imperceptible, almost silent. The voice wasn't Ben's. It was one she recognized. It was … Luke.

Rey choked on her own tears and saliva. A few months ago, hearing the voice of a man she knew was dead would have been terrifying. But those days now seemed a different lifetime. It seemed to her entirely reasonable that if she could speak to Ben Solo from lightyears away, then Luke Skywalker could speak to her from beyond death. Why not? Nothing seemed to make much sense these days.

"Okay," she said in response. "Vinsoth it is."

* * *

"Senator Casterfo, it is _so_ good to see you again," intoned C-3PO, his servo motors whirring as he quickly strode up to him and Poe. Moving through the corridors of Holdo Station, trying to keep their conversations as private as possible, Casterfo and Commander Dameron were nonetheless obliged to stop.

"Threepio, it is a pleasure as always," Casterfo replied, warmly. "But I'm no longer a senator, remember?"

"And there's no longer a Senate," Poe added, _sotto voce_.

"Certainly. But, um," Threepio squirmed. Without knowing what to call him, the poor protocol droid was at a loss.

"Some people call me a general," Casterfo offered, "But that's not really true. I'd prefer it if you'd use the Riosan title, Daal."

"Of course, Daal Casterfo," Threepio chirped, feeling better.

Casterfo smiled. He was indeed a very good-looking man, in particular with that winning, politician smile. He seemed, Poe thought, glad to have been able to make even a droid happy. Then the smile faded, and Casterfo dropped his voice as he said, "I'm so sorry to hear about Princess Leia." His words were kind and genuine. "She was good to me, even when my actions could not merit such goodness."

Threepio's face fell too as he received Casterfo's condolences. "Princess Leia was the very kindest of mistresses. I served her for almost thirty years. It is a droid's lot in life to outlive his master, but no matter how many times we do, it is too painful for words."

Casterfo nodded, reverently, and then patted the droid on the shoulder as he and Poe continued on.


	6. Chapter 6

She'd spent another day at it out there, digging into the desert sands for the micaceous clay, bundling up the heavy earth, and selling the produce for food. It was hot under the sun and she no longer had the white mask she'd once made to protect her skin from its burning rays. She had pulled what fabric she could out of the starfighter and fashioned it into a balaclava to drape over her neck and forehead as she worked. The ship itself was hidden in the desert; her still-strange powers had allowed her to cover it in sand once she'd locked it down, but she still checked on it every day to be sure the sand was undisturbed.

Clean drinking water was here, unlike on Jakku, a commodity to be purchased alongside food. It was hard to imagine that Jakku had any advantage over any world at all, but there it was. She sipped on her canteen but held off on the dinner, waiting, hoping. The tiny tent, crafted out of poles and scrap she'd bargained for, gave protection from the nightly winds that crept in from the edges of the open desert and a bit of shadow in the sun, but little more. She didn't have much, though. Possessing a Rebel starfighter was surely a dead-giveaway of her affiliation with the Resistance, wasn't it? Offering up her services as a pilot was little better. She couldn't risk anyone knowing who she was and selling her out.

Instead, she lay back on the makeshift bed in her little makeshift home. She had hoped to have left this life a long time ago, and never have to return; yet here she was, doing that which she knew how to do best: survive.

She felt him before she could see him. Their impossible connection had been her only source of comfort here over the past week of labor. It continued strong, allowing her to see and sense him almost all the time, dropping away unexpectedly and making her feel surprisingly empty.

Rey turned to look at him. A smile turned the very corners of her lips. It was hard to admit she was glad, even grateful, to have him following her. On the Resistance base, she'd been angry, hurt, and sad to find herself with awkward double vision, seeing at once her own life and his apparently intertwined; he had been inescapable, omnipresent, a constant reminder of each of their choices. Here, however, his face was welcome and, yes, comforting. She could almost consider it Leia's gift for them to have another chance to talk.

"Hey," he said softly, almost sheepishly.

He looked, well, regal as he often did. Ben Solo was a big man, tall and physically imposing. He didn't scare her, not anymore, but she was aware of how much … space he took up, even though she was the only one who could see him. He was dressed in a simple black tunic of a very fine fabric with soft sleeves that belled out above his elbows, soft leather gauntlets, all elegantly embroidered with barely shining floss, all charcoal grey on charcoal. She felt suddenly shabby in her customary trousers and tabard, even though it was all she had. At least she'd bargained to get a quick oil bath that day.

Looking around her ugly little tent, she noticed that what she missed most were things that had not occurred to her to be bothered by before. That is, the loneliness that she felt now hadn't been able to exist before. On Jakku, she just hadn't _realized_ how lonely she was. It was simply part of the background noise of her life, that dull ache that she had somehow been able to subsume. Now, though, that she knew what it was to have friends, to have someone that depended on her, who valued her and missed her, she realized how much it hurt to be so lonely. A few months of knowing friendship and belonging and purpose had somehow managed to erase the years, the lifetime, of callus she had built up over that particular sensation. She missed Finn, she missed the Resistance, and she missed her porgs. And when he wasn't hovering on the edge of her vision, she missed Ben.

A lifetime of pressing down her emotions, and now they were all suddenly awake.

She couldn't deny that she was glad to see him. If he was going to know where she was anyway, if he could see her surroundings as she can see his, then at least she could be glad for his company. The truth was, she liked him.

All of a sudden, she realized that she hadn't responded to his soft, casual greeting. Perhaps he assumed she was ignoring him again, because he didn't seem to be bothered by her silence. He sat down; as time had progressed, she was more and more able to see his surroundings, and he hers. At first, she hadn't been fully aware of it, but after he'd pointed it out to her, it seemed obvious that there was so much more there than had been before: a bare stone throne room, an ascetic bedroom, a cheerless and manicured garden. He was almost always by himself, but where she could hear other voices it was clearly some subordinate to whom he was delivering orders. She did her best not to listen.

In any regard, Ben was sitting, waiting patiently. She'd been waiting too, hoping that the Force would connect them again soon. It was for exactly this moment that she'd been saving her dinner, listening to her stomach rumble inside her, so she'd have someone to share her meal with.

"You going to eat?" she asked, in the same soft voice he'd used with her. She could see a side table with dishes on it. He'd been waiting for her too. He picked up a plate and fork and took a bite of whatever it was; she almost detected a smile on his lips as he chewed.

It was pleasant to have someone there with her; Ben was unexpectedly good company, even when they were silent together. After a few moments, he asked, "Where were you born?"

"I don't know. I don't remember anything besides Jakku. Where were you born?"

"Chandrila."

"That must've been something," she replied, thinking wistfully of what had once been the capital of the New Republic. She only ever heard stories of it, of course, fantastical stories of Hanna City, a shining, civilized place, where there was peace and enough food for there to be a culture. She had seen dancing troops that occasionally came through Niima outpost, but that which passed for dancing on her poor desert planet wasn't worth much, and even she knew that. Scantily dressed girls who danced at taverns for credits, or the whining bands of musicians who occupied drinking halls, playing whatever instruments they could assemble themselves from scrap, were a poor substitute for what she felt confident was real music. In a different life, with an education, other things could've been hers.

As if he heard her thoughts, he said, "I had a good education there. Music, history, astrography."

"Did you attend an Academy?"

"Private education." He pursed his lips, as if thinking back on those days with discomfort. "Like royalty." Now she could sense his lack of ease, his feeling of distaste. There was an edge of pride in his voice, yes, but also unhappiness. Yes, of course like royalty. He _was_ royalty. A prince of Alderaan. He had had all the finest things, except parents who paid attention to him. They had trod that ground before in their late-night conversations, when neither of them could sleep.

"Have you ever been to an opera?" she asked, suddenly struck by the idea of such a thing. It was another concept she'd heard about somewhere, and had always wondered about.

"A few times."

"Did your mother take you?" She wondered, even as she said it, if she had gone too far.

But he continued, calmly, "Theeepio. He was the only one who could stand it." Was that funny? Was Ben Solo ... being funny?

"So Jakku," he said, suddenly uncomfortable again. "What was that like?"

She thought for a moment. How to answer that question? The desperate, scrabbling poverty that surrounded and pressed down on everyone, the misery and the agony of life in Niima outpost. A village devoid of hope.

But they were clans that lived in the desert, some of them human, some of them warlike and some of them peaceful, and many of them strong and capable communities. They existed outside the grasp of the cartels, finding and sharing their own food and water, living communally with their own traditions and customs. She knew little about them; her self-imposed exile from them kept her separated. Rey took a deep breath and laid down her vessel. Perhaps it would be good to speak about those days. Perhaps, with Ben …

"When I first came, the first thing I remember, was Unkar Plutt's house. Ugly and filthy. I was just little, I didn't know how to take care of myself." She shrugged. Suddenly she could no longer look him in the eye, so she looked down at her hands. "It was hard. I don't remember much, but I remember when he would make me sit in his lap, or give him a kiss." She felt nauseated just thinking about it, the smell of his skin, the stickiness of his hot breath, his large, awful, bloated hands touching her hair. "He'd give me food if I was good. If I let him do what he wanted." And what he wanted was for her to be close to him, to sit in his lap and pretend to be a pet, a plaything, petting her hair and giving her sweets. "When I got a little bigger, and I learned how to fight, I put it into that. But he controls the food, he makes all the decisions, and you're always his."

Then was really good at this, listening. She was so surprised, each and every time, by how attentive he was. How he stayed so silent, his constant intensity settled entirely on her, never trying to get control of the conversation or thinking of his own response before she was finished. As she had so many times before, she wondered who Ben would have been if things had been just a little different.

But as she spoke, she could also feel his anger. Sickening disgust filled him, and rage. He imagined whatever creature an Unkar Plutt was, daring to violate her. His feelings – they were not possessive as such, but _protective_. Anger and disgust and, yes, hatred filled his chest, that too familiar cascade of uncontrolled temper threatening to escape him, but not at injustices he himself had suffered; that was a familiar enough feeling. No, this was the strange, unfamiliar sensation of anger, indignation, on behalf of another. It was foreign, alien, and that foreignness was sufficient to remind him to dampen down the rage. There was nothing to be done now, nothing he could do if he wanted to, except wish that he had destroyed Niima the same day he had destroyed Tuanul.

"You didn't deserve that," he said, after several moments. "Someone should have been there to protect you."

She smiled despite herself at that. "You're doing that thing," she murmured. "When you think you're talking about me but you're talking about both of us."

His head popped up like he'd been pinched. She had noticed; _of course_ she had noticed. She had to see their echoes, their simple, clear unity. She had to know – she had to _understand._ He'd never felt less alone and more seen than when he was with her, even separated, like this. And, he felt quite sure for the first time, she felt it too.

 _Patience, Ben,_ he told himself.


End file.
